This fic, posted much, much later than I had planned on, happened for two reasons. One, because I haven't had a bunny bite in a good many months, so who am I to kick the little fluffer to the side when all I do is bitch and moan about terminal Writer's Block? Two, because I've read a couple of things about the looming season premiere, and it seems that TBTP are on a path to screw the pooch on yet another season-finale cliffhanger, and I'd like to go to my happy place and imagine an episode that isn't annoying and nonsensical, and picks up right where the finale ended. I've had a hard time with original material lately, so I let this one take me where it wanted to go. Love it, hate it, this is what it is.
Out of the Frying Pan
Well. Shit.
Purgatory, huh?
Which, if he squints, could almost be the wood outside the lake house he and Sammy and Dad holed up in one summer when Dean was fifteen, or maybe he's forcing himself to see it that way, associating the most horrific landscape imaginable to the memory of the last time the three of them were together for more than twenty-four hours without it nearly coming to blows between Sam and Dad. They say to escape an awful situation, mentally at least, go to your happy place and he figures that's about as close to one as he's got. So if he really tries to see it, purgatory kind of resembles those woods, if all of the trees had been dead and creepy-looking, with a vast nothingness to it and a rolling fog sinister and intimidating.
Dean's attempt to not see the reality of this place is a miserable failure because what he's surrounded by has to be the most desolate and depressing environment imaginable, and it's definitely an environment he's spent plenty of time imagining. Hopefully just imagining, and not remembering. He's been down that road before, and allows himself a couple of long blinks to wipe away any familiarity he's forcing upon the scene laid out before him. Tells himself it's just his overtaxed mind putting a spin on what is arguably the most screwed he's ever been.
All the shit he's been through, all the years, all the monsters…there's nothing in his arsenal to pull from, no experience to help him out of this. This place just is; it feels like nothing, smells like nothing, sounds like nothing.
And there's the demons, of course. Pure demons, what's at the ooey gooey center. Demons without the tricks and glamours and physical limitations of their stolen human vessels. Everything has to go somewhere when it dies, and the demons go here. A good number of them are here because of him, and they have to know it. They have to smell it on him.
There are dozens of them, hundreds; doesn't matter because all it takes is one and Dean isn't sure his weapons made the trip with him and he doesn't really have the time to check.
The demons are all around him, surrounding him, an endless black mass broken up sporadically by pairs of eyes, gold and jade and menacing blood-red. They bring with them a sudden, nauseating stench of old blood and they're all looking to add Dean's to the tally. He's really gotta do something about that before it's too late.
Even knowing this he feels oddly frozen in place, like he couldn't move if he wanted to. The air is heavy, without even a hint of a breeze moving around him. He's so screwed. Too vulnerable here in the open. And all alone, what with Cas being the chickenshit he is, vanishing into thin air and leaving him to the beasts. Maybe he went to find help. Dean can't be the only sorry son of a bitch stuck here.
Is it possible to die in purgatory? Again? He has to be dead, again, can make his peace with that as long as he took that Leviathan fucker with him, but isn't going to stick around any longer and wait to see what happens next. Dean wiggles his fingers, both pleased to find he isn't actually frozen in place and furious with himself for still standing there like it's his first goddamned rodeo.
The bell goes off in his head and he hightails it out of there, fucking Usain Bolts it for the tree line. Jaws snap and claws reach but Dean's been training his entire life for this moment, and nothing will catch him now.
He runs until his lungs burn and his legs ache and his toes are blistering inside his heavy boots. He runs forever, with no sense of time passing and no thought of stopping. It has to be for hours but his watch doesn't seem to work in friggin' purgatory and there's no sun to track, just the matte, ashen coloring of a perpetual twilight.
Dean runs until his legs give out entirely, until his right knee buckles and his foot slips out in front of him. He twists to keep from wrenching his leg and lands flats on his ass, staring up at the cloudless, starless gray sky, gasping for breath. He stubbornly shoves himself back to his feet but he's got Gumby legs and makes it only two shaky steps before collapsing back to the hard ground in the center of a small clearing.
Utterly spent, he rolls onto his back and lies still, catching his breath, listening, sensing, waiting for his strength to return and his heart rate to slow. Expends the energy it takes to confirm he's as good as naked, not even a slingshot in his back pocket. Acts the part of the hunter and tries to figure out what the hell to do from here. Just for a second, though; fucking things are everywhere, could be on him again in no time.
There's a rustle in the grass just beyond his left ear and Dean swallows, turns his head slowly, fully expecting to have his face ripped off and too exhausted to care. Honestly, if he got this far and the demons caught him, he deserves to be torn apart.
It's Castiel, not a bloodthirsty demon, on the ground next to him, making snow angels if there was snow instead of dirt and sticks and little pointy rocks.
Dean rolls his eyes, shifting his weight against the hard, unforgiving ground. "We should take this disappearing act on the road. Make some money."
"I'm sorry if you feel as though I left you."
"If I feel as though you left me? S'there another way to interpret you vanishing into thin air every time I'm about to be ripped into a hundred pieces?"
"I told you, I have no desire to fight."
"Yeah, well, there wasn't exactly a lot of fighting." It's a struggle to drag himself up onto his elbows but Dean makes it there, not sure he's ready to try anything more upright just yet. He rotates his right foot and the movement sends a spike of pain up to his knee.
Castiel pulls himself into a seated position, crossing his legs in that casual way he's had about certain death ever since he went cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. "You ran."
Dean ignores the accusation he hears there, thinks about more pressing matters than his ego. "We safe here?"
"For the moment."
"We're really in purgatory?" He asks by habit, already knows the answer but can't stop himself from stalling while he thinks.
"What do you think?"
Dean swallows, because he doesn't already know the answer to this next question. "Am I dead?"
"Do you feel dead?"
"How the hell am I supposed to know if I feel dead?" Not that he hasn't been dead before.
Cas ponders a moment before reaching out and smacking Dean in the side of the head.
"Ow!"
"I do not believe you are dead."
"Great," Dean says drily, rubbing his head. "Well, that's not gonna last long unless you snap out of it and get me the hell out of here."
"There is no 'out of here.'"
Dean shakes his head and gets to his feet, stretching strained and overtaxed muscles, popping tired joints. He walks a slow circle, working out the twinge in his knee. "Nah. If there's a way in, there's a way out."
"Maybe once, yes. But you are here now because Crowley wanted you out of the picture. You are here because the Leviathan that was Dick Roman is here. You're connected."
"So if Sam tries to bring me back stateside…" …he brings Roman back, too.
Cas nods solemnly.
"Well, good. Okay," Dean says without feeling. "That's that. Sammy won't do that."
"I'm sorry."
Dean waves a hand at the sometimes-angel. "No worries." He settles at the base of a towering skeletal tree and goes to work rubbing his sore calves, the rough dead bark digging into his back through his jacket. "We'll figure something out. You've pulled me out of worse, right?"
Castiel's head bobs, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. His eyes have taken on that drifting, faraway look that leaves Dean feeling empty and guilty inside.
"Are you uncomfortable?" Cas asks after a lengthy pause.
Hell is hot and Earth is cold and this place is everything in between. Dean's still wearing his leather jacket, the new one that doesn't smell like Dad. But the heavy material isn't unbearable, and he doesn't suppose he's really hungry or thirsty, and there's jack he could do about it if he was. He shakes his head. "How long til they find us?"
There's no response from Castiel, and that's answer enough for Dean. Not very damn long.
There's something almost too quiet about the silence, and Dean turns his head to see the angel has once again flown the coop, leaving him utterly alone in this place. He has only enough time to drag himself to his feet before they appear out of nowhere, literally materializing between and over trees, creating an impenetrable perimeter of demons around the small clearing.
Dean takes an instinctive step back, raising his hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Listen. Crowley wants to make you his bitches – "
He's slammed to the hard ground, the wind knocked out of him. There's no telling which son of bitch is the one attacking him but it hurts like hell. He rolls quickly to his knees just in time to be thrown flat again.
"I'm not your enemy!" He rethinks that, forcing himself upright. "Okay, maybe I am, but there's not a whole hell of a lot I can do to you down here. Now, Crowley…he is your enemy. He's already king in Hell and he wants to be the same here. Help me get back up top and I will stop him."
A single obsidian shape emerges from the pack, two stark, glowing red orbs where eyes would be. "Well, hey there, Dean."
The voice is different, a rough, hellish growl, but the mocking inflection is the same as ever. He can't believe his ears. Or his bad luck. "Meg?"
"I used to be. This is the real me, babycakes."
"Crowley – "
"Killed me? Ding, ding, ding. We have a grand prize winner."
A weighty, frightening pause filled with the sound of clacking talons and teeth, wet growls. There are dozens of bright eyes watching his every move.
"Come and claim your prize, Dean. It's an all-expenses paid trip…to right here."
His heart is picking up pace, not liking the finality of her words, even if he has no way to refute them.
"Always be sure to read the fine print, though. It's a one-way ticket."
They're slowly encircling him while she keeps him otherwise occupied. He takes a small, cautious step back. His boot snaps a twig and everyone shows their hand. The mass of demons lurches as one and Meg stops them with an awful, piercing shriek. They pause in their attack, but Dean's lost a lot of space to work with.
"Not so fast, Dean."
He's lost her in the sea of inky black shadow, can't pinpoint where the voice is coming from. He whirls in a tight, careful circle, wetting his lower lip and weighing his options. There isn't enough room to run, but he isn't going to take this lying down.
"Turns out I still get a consolation prize. A brand new shiny chew toy."
There she is. Dean's stomach drops. There's a hungry look in those blazing red eyes. Where the hell are you, Cas? Doesn't risk saying it out loud, hopes but doubts he can call the angel with a thought.
He tries to stall. "I know we haven't always worked well together, you and I, but, Meg – "
An awful laugh cuts through him like a blade. God damn it, Cas.
"You think that was really me? In one of your puny human meat suits? Baby, you've got a lot to learn."
The demons start to close in, slowly, deliberately, and Cas is nowhere to be found.
Dean always knew he'd die fighting, just never figured the odds would be so heavily stacked against him. This fight is over before it even begins. He doesn't stand a chance against this many demons, so he does what he's never been known for and keeps talking, suppressing the instinct to wade weaponless into the mouth of his imminent demise and get this show on the road. There's no telling the state of things topside and he's not willingly leaving Sammy to an uncertain future. The protectiveness that comes with being a big brother is one instinct he can't suppress.
There's no telling how much time he has but none of them are making a move on him just yet, and Meg might only be toying with him but he takes a shot, keeping his hands raised in surrender. "This might be a hail Mary heave for the end zone, here, but what if we worked together to get back up top? Take Crowley out of the picture once and for all?"
"If there was any way out of this hellhole, don't you think we would have found it?"
There's been a horrified knot in Dean's stomach since he opened his eyes to find himself here, and it tightens as amused expression comes over that shadowy face, a dangerous glint in those eyes. The question hadn't come from Meg.
"Can't you just imagine what we'd do to your little world and all you puny humans?"
It's a new voice, and once again, there's no familiarity in the sight of the demonic bitch separating herself from the herd or the sound of her voice, just the cadence. Dean's stomach roils. Ruby.
"Long time, no see, Dean."
"Great." He lets his arms fall to his sides. "Fantastic. Why not? Are you sons of bitches taking numbers back there?" he shouts at the black mass behind her.
"Might wanna mind your tongue down here, Dean. You're on our turf now."
"What are you gonna do? Kill me? That's a hollow threat if I've ever heard one. How much more screwed could I possibly get?"
"Is that an invitation?"
"Sure. You know what? It's an invitation. Do what you do best, sweetheart. Talk me to death."
Her golden eyes seem to be burning, glowing like red-hot embers. "If baby wants to play…we can play."
Being tossed like a rag doll by a demon confined to a human body is an afternoon romp in bouncy house compared to this. Dean's back connects with a rotted tree that splinters into a thousand pieces as he crashes through. He hits the hard ground with a bone-jarring force that steals every wisp of oxygen from his lungs. The sea of demons parts as the momentum carries him a far but unknown distance until he rolls to a sudden stop against a much thicker, sturdier tree that holds the momentum of his weight.
Maybe he can't die here, but that hurt like hell.
"Okay," Dean grits out, forcing himself to his knees and elbows. "Point taken."
The whole group of them is laughing as one, the two ring leaders really yukking it up. The black wall of demons reforms around him, leaving him in a clearing about the size of your average living room.
This is it. Cas has about thirty seconds to get his ass out of there before the shit hits the fan. Even as he's thinking it, Dean knows the angel won't make it. Knows Cas has probably forgotten all about him by this point, out having a friggin' tea party.
"Oh, Dean. It really would have been better for you if you were dead."
The demons attack as one.